


Devil’s Cut

by InWater



Category: Ghost (Swedish Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, air ghoulette (the taller one), ghouls are no longer human, they got better, very minor mentions of violence/death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-14 17:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16044983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InWater/pseuds/InWater
Summary: Who are we to deny the angels of their share?





	Devil’s Cut

**Author's Note:**

> Damn, I tried to keep things fun and lighthearted for once and look what happened. 
> 
> Unedited, unbetad, etc.

The bedroom door creaks open and Fire startles from his spot on the floor, fingers fumbling on the fretboard of his guitar. He turns and catches the eye of one of the air ghoulettes. She seems surprised to see him. The other ghouls had opted to tag along with the Cardinal when he left earlier that afternoon. There’s another creak and a soft click as she closes the door behind her.

“Look what I found,” she says as she holds up a bottle with a dramatic flourish of her hand. Fire squints at the familiar bottle. Where had he seen it before? Is that from the cabinet in the dining hall?

“I’m _pretty_ sure that belongs to the Cardinal,” Fire says. He looks up from his guitar again when she doesn’t respond and sees that she’s frozen with her hand on the cap. She slowly slides her hand away, down the neck of the bottle.

“You think he’ll miss it? Maybe I should put it back and get something else. There was vodka—“

Fire cuts her off with a disgusted noise.

“That shit tastes like rubbing alcohol,” he frowns, shaking his head. “Besides, vodka makes me… feisty.”

Air holds the bottle close to her chest and turns slightly away, smiling.

“And what makes you think I was going to share with you?”

“Ah, you know. The goodness of your heart and all that shit.” Fire pats the ground beside him, inviting her over. He knows he doesn’t have to. It’s her room too, after all. The band members were moved into their own bedroom the day they were chosen, away from the large communal living space that the rest of the ghouls were confined to.

Air laughs and sits across from where Fire is leaning against the side of his bed instead of beside him. He drops his gaze. It doesn’t hurt, of course. It’s just mildly awkward. They’re not friends. They just work here. Fire begins to fidget, like he should say something. He can feel himself getting restless, fingers clumsy as he drags them over the strings.

“You know, he’d probably just let you have some if you asked. I don’t think he cares.”

She laughs again, covering her mouth with her free hand.

“But that's not very fun, is it? It’s just for old time’s sake.”

With that, she unscrews the cap and takes a deep pull straight from the bottle. She shudders and shakes her head as if it would ease the sting. The sick-sweet burn in the back of her throat spreads quickly through her chest, down into her stomach.

Fire eyes the bottle warily before asking, “So, did you do this sort of thing back home? Steal booze from your parents and stuff?”

She doesn't have it in her to be offended at the moment so she merely grins, wrinkling her nose slightly.

“No! Not since I was a teenager, anyway.”

Fire shrugs, cradling the body of his guitar closer in his lap so he can lean forward and motion for her to pass him the bottle. He takes a tentative swig of the deep amber liquid and immediately sputters, coughing. This time the other ghoul laughs wholeheartedly, shrill and loud, rocking back a bit.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Cardinal actually _drink_ this more than once,” she says, voice high with amusement.

Fire wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Can’t say I blame him. That’s fucking vile,” he grits out. It burns his lips and feels like it coats the back of his throat in a thick, acrid layer. He coughs once and repositions himself to resume practicing.

They occasionally pass the bottle back and forth, once the bitter heat settles a bit. She hums along to the tune he’s plucking out as she stretches, changing positions every couple minutes to get comfortable on the cold stone floor. Fire almost forgets that she’s there and jumps when she taps her foot against his knee.

“Do you ever think about, that maybe your family and friends— that they miss you?”

“All the time,” he answers before he can stop himself. Fire groans and puts a hand to his face. Sweet benighted Satan, barely fifteen minutes in and they’re already getting _feelsy_. He stares straight ahead at her, expression blank. After a few moments, he sighs and runs his hand back through his hair. It came out easier than expected. It’s bitter and though his face is grim, she can hear a hint of humor in his voice, a sound that maybe, possibly could have been the beginning of a laugh.

It’s strange to be alone. The other air ghoulette, the only one she’s ever met, is usually plastered to her hip. Not that she’s complaining. They joined the church together when they were young, barely into their twenties. They didn’t know anybody. There was no time to adjust before they were chosen to study music under the previous air ghoul. They didn’t _get_ to have free time to just sit and enjoy the company of other ghouls.

She supposes that the others in the band came from similar situations, but that doesn’t make it any easier to understand them. They’re loud, for the most part, and boisterous. Eager for camaraderie. She can’t blame them. Companionship is where you find it. They take what they can get.

But she’s already somewhat fond of them all and she would be a liar if she said that finally, finally, _finally_ being able to play during rituals and mass hadn’t made it all worth it.

“Do you ever regret it?” She says after another drink.

 

_Do you ever miss being a person?_

 

Fire finishes his song and slowly lowers his guitar. He looks up at her and brings his hand subconsciously to his chest where their symbols are. Where beneath his robes, the sacrificial dagger split the fragile flesh between his fourth and fifth rib. He can still smell the smoke, remembers familiar voices chanting, the vague shadowed faces of countless other members of the congregation, of His Unholy Eminence, Papa Emeritus Nihil himself. He has to shake the thought from his head. The ritual was like being put through Hell, but then again, he supposes that’s the whole point. Going to Hell and back to shed their mortal bodies which were made in the Lord’s image.

He looks into her eyes. She knows exactly what he’s thinking and he can tell. She, and all the rest of them, they all _know_.

“Not at all.”

He grabs the bottle away from her and smiles. Genuinely. Lopsided and all teeth from over the rim of the bottle before he tips the bottle back one more time. 


End file.
